


The Devil Takes Care of His Own

by ZomBrie



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Amnesia, Asexual Character, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Canon-Typical Violence, Dad Jokes, Death, Demisexual Character, Drugs, Frenemies, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Gore, Mentions of Sex, Multi, Other, Reader Insert, Romance, Sexual Humor, Sexual dialogue, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Swearing, also reader is a somewhat decent person, as much as we can get considerin the location and characters, charlie is the chaotic bisexual bean we all deserve, cw: body dysmorphia, gender neutral reader, husk and angel might have a lil somethin somethin goin on, kinda? sorta??, like two years shy of being thirty, not a healthy relationship guys, ok boomer jokes, puns, reader canonically has body dysmorphic disorder, reader interactive, reader is a grown ass adult though, reader is canonically gender neutral, reader was a millenial, self mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-30 22:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21436003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZomBrie/pseuds/ZomBrie
Summary: There's no telling why your soul's final resting place is eternal damnation- you certainly can't on account of having no recollection of who you were or what your life was like topside. But it seems that you've earned your seat at the table because the copious amounts of blood, of gore, even the horrific senseless day-to-dayviolencereally doesn't faze you. Something that a good person wouldn't be able to say.Not that you'll ever claim to be such.Redemption may be an impossible pipe dream these days, but that's not gonna stop you from trying to survive eternal judgment while maintaining some semblance of decency. Doesn't mean that other forces won't try.[Alastor/Gender Neutral Reader]
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader, Charlie Magne/Vaggie
Comments: 41
Kudos: 298





	1. Run Rabbit, Run

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Summary:  
You snatch a young girl from certain danger, and even though a trail of broken dishes and angry business owners are left in your wake, at least the kiddo is safe. For now.
> 
> ***please don't run zig zag from gators, that'll only slow you down**

When you first awoke within the muck of the drudges of the damned, it was without any recollection as to who you were or what you were about or even _why_ you were here; somehow, in spite of the personal amnesia, gray meat in the ol' chrome dome was able to quickly surmise where "here" was. Drew a blank on your friggin' name but not on your location? Didn't really inspire much confidence, _still_ doesn't actually.

You've grown some since, about a month's time if you're keeping track accurately- that's up for debate however, passage of time operates differently here- and though you're honestly no closer to figuring out just who in the hell you _were_, you've managed to forge some footpaths in the mountain that is ciphering the inner machinations of Pentagram City... and who you _are_ in this concrete jungle of copper smells and marquee lights.

And, of friggin course, who you are just so happens to be the biggest bleeding heart in all of damnation.

The scene before you is playing out in such a way that it's resonating within the cavity of your ribcage so differently than ever before- well, at least within your short term memory anyway. See you're no stranger to violence, though your familiarity sings distinct from most everyone else's, but in the thirty or so days of consciousness you've witnessed first hand turf wars over a single city block, a lover's quarrel that resulted in a heart literally being cleaved out of someone's chest, muggings for baggies of white powder that you swiftly deduced was _not_ confectioners sugar, and oh so much more over oh so much less. Hell, even you've slipped past the avaricious claws of would be thieves eyeing your satchel. Joke's on them, the contents are merely yellow parcels and white envelopes. And not to toot your horn but you're-__

_ __ _

_ __ _

**"-fast. I'm very fast. I'm like Forrest Gump, except I'm not an idiot."** The voice, masculine and strained through puffs of heavy breathing, echoes in your ears yet it doesn't ring a bell.

... now's not the time for an _episode_, self.

And it's a burst of noise- like a mixture between water and air spraying- that brings you back into focus.

Right.

The carnage that's about to take place cause you're standing around like an idiot with a thumb up your ass.

A young girl poises herself before a cavern of teeth, staring her aggressor in the maw with a grin curling on her rosy cheeks. As if certain not-death ain't about to swallow her noggin whole, bones and all. The aggressor in question peels their jaw further apart and a low, rolling sound rumbles from within the depths. Still the kiddo doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink at her impending doom.

She can't be more than fifteen so her fight or flight instincts should be well in the process of switching over to autopilot, but to your utter dismay they don't seem to be engaging.

Cause she's still just... _standing_ there.

The demon looms over her tiny body with a hunched back, sickly green scales flutter under the pentagram's fluorescence, and their torso gradually expands outward- not unlike that of a balloon- as if they're gulping down a throat full of breath- as if they're bracing for the pounce-

Liquid ice gushes through your veins, through your muscles, and pools around the bones of your ankle joints; inner thighs clench, knees slack; left foot ferociously stomps at the asphalt with the right quickly following suit, left right, left right, rapid hastening cycle; the thinning rubber of your sneaker's soles does little to absorb the impact- every footfall strike sends ripples of tingly pain up your shins, making all extremities tremble; you pump one arm in tandem with your racing heart and the other prepares with hooked finger bones. The harsh pace kicks up cement dust in your wake.

The aggressor leans further- the kid ain't moving- you're not gonna make it in time-

**-heat: stifling. black cloud: smoke inhalation. neighbor: passed out. not much time. not enough of it. get him out _now_.**

Grab her.

**-grab him.**

_NOW_

____________________________________

Some feet ahead and to the left is the mouth of an alleyway, and if memory serves correctly this side street should eventually spill out into Fifth, and if that's the case then the alley should house the back entrance to the (alleged) cannibal cafe- an establishment that maintains the coveted fourth place on your personal list of "Must Avoid Unless Absolutely Necessary".

The owner, an absolute unit of saccharine smiles and four barbed tusks to match her literal boorish appearance, is a demon gal that you get along with well enough; a relationship constricted to the limits of professionalism, you often find yourself engaged in weather talk after the ritual of mail delivery is completed. Of course the hairs on the back of your neck rise whenever you look her in the eye for too long, but that's to be expected when she's pricing out whatever cuts your hide might produce. At least, you're like eighty percent certain that that's what she does while exchanging pleasantries.

Still, your options are between cutting through Mrs. Sowbelly's Cafe or stay on the straight and narrow... and both choices carry considerable risk behind them. Both choices could land the two of you in the trap of a beast's glistening, spittle sheen teeth.

And full transparence? You like the sniff of your chances with the widowed pig more.

Besides, provided that you shield the young cyclops from view, Mrs. Sowbelly shouldn't be able to commit your damsel in distress's identity to memory and start getting any _funny_ ideas. The kiddo should be safe.

So it's with a pivot on your heel, a rapid change that leaves you hopping on one leg momentarily, that you tear your body to the left and haul ass down the alleyway like the devil's nipping at your heels.

Which, ironically though no literally, he/she/they are- well, not _the_ devil but rather _a_ devil. It's a clever metaphor dammit, and you're gonna applaud yourself later if you survive this clusterfuck of a shitty ass situation.

Then again... folks down here don't really die, do they? Not like how they do topside. Probably hurts just as much, however.

A drag of oxygen claws from deep within your stomach, swells the airway in your throat until they ache, and the muscles around your knees ignite with an icy burn- all fueled by a dwindling supply of addictive adrenaline. The tiny girl shifts in your arms, causing her red tresses to ghost the underside of your chin, before her single, rather large ocular finds you; there's a question gleaming in the yellowed pit of her iris, and while your soft heart would love nothing more than to humor her there are other matters you must attend to first- that being saving your skins- so you tuck her head back into one shoulder and twist its partner to lead the two person charge.

Brace.

Grit your teeth.

And- BAM!

_Pain_\- biting _deep_ into the blade. Nothing serious. Bruise at worst.

But you're in.

In the split second it takes all of the neurons to collectively process your surroundings, you quickly discover that the cafe's back door immediately leads into a quaint kitchen. There might be a lace and heart motif on the walls, and there _might_ be a slab of oozing, fleshy meat on the counter? Or your brain is misidentifying things, wouldn't be the first time downside; shuffle around the island and through the white swinging door before you throw a brief apology to Mrs. Sowbelly about the rude intrusion. And maybe there is some sort of higher power still looking out for your unbelievably dumb ass because the swinging door opens up to the dining portion of the cafe.

Thank Whomever or Whatever for small miracles.

"Oops, sorry!" and "pardon me, sir!" and "oh fuck! I'm really sorry!" become your mantra as you dodge wooly servers and rodent customers alike. The shrill cry of porcelain shattering rings in the periphery of your attention span and your stomach churns itself with guilt.

The display you must be putting on, ruining these poor people's lovely, likely cannibalistic brunch. God, you're such a jerk.

Still, there's a certain appreciation for _escape_ and _safety_ that's far outweighing the acidic aftertaste of shame right now- not to mention you haven't heard the aggressor in a bit and that's worrisome- so you swallow your pride, hunch your back a little (effectively obscuring the kid from the public's eye), and much like a bull in a glass shop you sprint all the way to the entrance. Broken dishes, disgruntled employees, pissed customers, and all.

Out of the cafe and on to the cobblestone of Fifth Street do you stop; now should you continue on through the crowds, or cut through more establishments in an unpredictable route? Your assailant seems to be gator-based so maybe you should-

**"- in order to escape from an alligator, you should run zig zag because they can only charge straight."**

That... sounds like misinformation, but time's a-wasting and you gotta make a choice now.

Crowd? Or the coffee shop across the street?

... well coffee _does_ have a tendency to make you more productive, placebo or otherwise, and you certainly trust it over Hell's denizens by leagues. So coffee shop it is!

Rinse, repeat: dodge the condemned, serpentine through the building, apologize to everyone who has the misfortune of in your path, and make your grand exit through another door. This rampaging circuit sees you bulldozing through some sorta clothing boutique, a toy store that's definitely _not_ for children, your favorite chocolatier distributor, and a pretzel shop that serves everything but pretzels. Naturally there are some other businesses in that line, however you don't deem them important enough to fully acknowledge them. No offense to the owners, of course.

And not once do you dare to glance behind your shoulder to see if the reptilian fellow/dame/gender neutral folk is trailing your footsteps.

____________________________________

"Why'd ya grab me?"

"To save you."

She blinks twice, an odd bundle of curiosity this one, then asks you the age old question known as "why?"

And honestly you're not entirely sure of the reasoning yourself. Admittedly- _admittedly_ it was more of a reaction than a conscious decision, with a memory that might or might have not been your own reverberating from the back of your mind until your feet were already moving. Cause in that moment all you were seeing was a monster ready to hurt a teenage girl- and demon or no the novelty of leaving a kid to fend for herself sounded heinous. Vile. So you snatched her up and ran.

No reason to bore her with that explanation however, kids have short attention spans and all that, and you're more than willing to chalk this up to something akin to Occam's Razor- "the simplest solution is more likely the right one."

... boy howdy, you can remember _that_ but not your own goddamn name? Just how in the hell have you survived this long?

"Seemed like the right thing to do."

This seems to confuse her further for both top and bottom eyelid draw closer around the globe of her eye, rosy cheeks puffing out as she looks you up and down then back up again for... insert reason here?

Oh. Oh!

Two things about the doomed denizens of Pentagram City, location one of the numerous layers of Hell: they tend to garb themselves in whatever fashion is familiar to them from the time/date of their death, probably as a last ditch effort to grasp at whatever shreds of humanity they have left? And the longer they've been here the less human they appear- you hear that there are exceptions to this observation but the general consensus states that one's residency in the realm of suffering determines how much metamorphosis one undergoes.

And this little lady? Based off of the giant eyeball and way she's dressed? You're kind of half expecting her to break out into Sandra Dee's routine of "Summer Nights" what with her billowing pink poodle skirt and matching scarf. Actually, scratch that, the pink is trademark Frenchy. "Beauty School Drop Out" it is.

Anyways, point being that this teen more than likely bit the dust like seventy-ish years ago, thus making her _chronologically_ older than you, meaning she's been here a hell of a lot longer than you, exposed to some of the worst humanity has to offer, so your whole "good samaritan" spiel is probably translating to something along the lines of "stranger danger".

"That's weird." She says.

"Sorry?"

"You know we're in Hell, right?"

Why yes you are aware of your current and permanent residency, and if anybody asks you you personally think that it's fucked the fuck up that a friggin _teenager_ is in Hell! What could a kid possibly do to warrant their soul's final resting place be the kingdom of sin and evil?! Grant it you don't know what you've done to receive the same treatment either, but a. you're an adult and b. it was probably real messed up compared to... whatever she "did".

Ponder the fallacies of morality later, it's time you get her back home.

Your knees bend until one cap burrows into the dirty below, and you bring yourself to be at a more leveled height with her- don't reach to her, not yet at least, likely doesn't feel safe around you yet (if ever.)

"Hey, is it cool if I ask you what your name is?" You smile, mindful of your canines so that they don't pierce your bottom lip. Again.

The reaction you receive is instantaneous.

"I'm Niffty! Who are you?" She chirps with a huge grin.

You choke on your words; "I uhh... don't remember? But you can call me 'Newbie', lots of people- erm, demons? Uhh, lots of folks call me that." Clear the throat, bring back the smile on your face. "So listen Niffty, do you have, like, parents or uhh.. family I can bring you to?"

"Pfft, I don't think anybody here has _parents_. Except for the princess of course! Well, there might be others... but anywaysie daisy, nope! No parents here!"

Jesus Christ she's an orphan on top of everything else?! Next thing you know she's gonna mention how someone drowned her pet lizard and chopped all the heads off her favorite stuffed animals when she was the tender age of three... you're way too much of a sentimental idiot for this bullshit.

"Okay, that's okay. How 'bout a home or, like, some kind of safe space I can drop you off at?"

"Oh! The Hazbin Hotel!"

... pardon? The what hotel? Wait.. there's a hotel in hell (heh, rhymes)? _Why?_

"Originally it was called the Happy Hotel but the bossman changed it, and if you ask me I like the new name better," she whispers the last part as if her opinion over the name is a secret between you two. Precious kid.

But also a hotel here just simply named the "Happy Hotel"? Yeah that sounds shady as fuck. Ain't a lot of happiness going around these here parts, not genuine happiness at least.

"Best job I've ever had too! I get to clean and cook all day, every day! Except during my time off... that's a real bummer."

That... kind of makes sense actually; child labor laws are likely ignored in favor of cheap drudge, and if folks are willing to exploit youngens in life then why would they forgo the practice after death? Trick question: they wouldn't cause people are terrible... unfortunately so are you.

It's not as if you can just uproot Niffty and bring her in under your non existent wing- mail delivery only pays for so much after all and there aren't enough routes in the city to haul your head above the water's hemline. So housing, feeding, and clothing a-whole-nother being when most of your nights are spent in the company of ravenous hunger and the legitimate consideration of selling off your _parts_ to Mrs. Sowbelly? Ain't happenin, cap'n.

"Well I've never heard of this hotel, but I can at least see that you get there safely," you offer, one hand rubbing at the back of your neck. "Dunno if that gator is still-"

"Wo-ow, you must be new if you don't know about the Hazbin Hotel!" She gives you a once-over again. "Guess that explains why you don't look... 'demon-y'."

You're losing track here; gotta get her back to her home as soon as possible, direct her attention towards that goal. Butter her up. Kids like that, right? Your gut says so at least.

"Heh, well it's gotta be pretty fuc- I-I mean, pretty awesome if they got someone like you workin' there, Niffty."

"OH, you're SO right! I make the place sparkle!"

She continues on with her excited babbling as she twirls her petite body around towards the east, billowing poodle skirt and all. Not gonna lie, you're kind of jealous of her and her garment; maybe something ankle length you can get away with. Meanwhile the young cyclops flutters on her feet with mentions of "doing my absolute best" and "that's why the bossman hired me", and though you'll admit that the details of her employment are enshrouded in mystery, and what little information you can glean sounds _very_ sketchy, still you don't attempt to dissuade her from her goal destination.

Who knows, maybe this Happy/Has-been Hotel won't be so awful?

Heh. Yeah right.

The moment Niffty is safe and secure, at least as far as the gator demon is concerned, you're gonna be well on your way back to the dingy apartment you call home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/u: _**i t b e g i n s**_. new hyper fixation and naturally my dumb slutty ass gravitates to the morally bankrupt all powerful monster in red, feels like this is repetitive behavior on my end. alastor in a relationship is gonna be a tough cookie to tackle but goddammit i'ma try while keeping him true to his character. meaning this ain't gon be healthy, y'all. don't expect the warm fuzzies with him. also half the lore is gonna be improv cause we don't know much yet about the series. with that said: leave me some kudos, gimme a comment, and don't be afraid to bookmark if ya wanna see more in the future! content creators thrive off of your engagement -3-  
come hang with your tig biddy goth wife on the tumbls


	2. Miscommunication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary:
> 
> Miscommunication runs amok at the hasbin hotel and you’re at the center of it all.

The Has-been Hotel is… you honestly don’t know what you were expecting when Niffty described the place but it sure as hell wasn’t… all of _this_.

It’s grandiose in both concept and execution, a towering beast of red brick and daunting spires and white marquees lights that draw the gaze up, up, up all seven plus stories until you’re gawking at the luminous, colossal eye nestled at the tippy top of the building; an amalgamation of various parts, such as the rusty boiler of an old locomotive on the left side and the splintering ruins of a ship smashed into the right, it’s as if the architecture had whipped up a variety of blueprints, couldn’t decide on which one to use, then hurled them at the wall to see what stuck. Each individual structure stacks on one another at such awkward angles, not enough to topple over but sufficient to deceive your brain into _thinking_ that it will.

The sort of anxiety that you get when a cup sits dangerously close to the edge of a table.

Niffty skips from one foot over to the other in an energetic, repetitious fashion until they both carry her closer to the grand double-door style entrance, and with a flourish of her skirt she twirls around until she’s gracing you with a toothy grin. “This is it, Newbie!” The declaration is made, and you feel the skin around your mouth pull into a smile of your own before you can even think about it. Her joy is infectious.

“Cool!” You respond, “umm… I’m gonna kinda stick around until you can get inside, is that okay?”

Her grin quickly drops and her brow pinches, though neither are done out of disgust or anger or any sort of negative reaction. If anything she merely looks confused. Then she asks her favorite question: “why?”

“Cause- I dunno, what if it’s locked?”

“But.. it’s a hotel. Why would it be locked?”

“I don’t- friggin know! Look, I just.. _have_ to make sure you get inside safely! For my peace of mind.”

Something clicks in her head, you can tell by the way her face slackens, the way her eye widens a fraction, and how her already open expression just… opens up more. What this all means you can’t say for sure but you’re hoping that it stems from the epiphany of _self preservation_ and _survival instincts_, or rather her lack thereof. You can’t afford to worry about her well-being after this. Got an un-life to live and all that.

A smile, tiny in size but genuine in nature, blooms on her face, and warm, fuzzy relief swells in your chest at the sigh; seems the little lady finally gets it.

“You should come inside and meet everybody, Newbie.”

…

Or not-

That’s-

You-

That’s not- the response that-

“W-_why_?”

The giggle she emits is light and airy, girlish- not quite like a child’s or even a teenager’s yet akin to. Like she knows something that you don’t. “I think you’ll like them, hell you might even become friends!”

“I don’t need- I have friends-” the rest of the statement disconnects from your voice due to the emotional and mental whiplash you’re currently suffering. Because _this_ is _not_ the direction you were anticipating. The direction you were hoping. A moment of clarity to break apart the cloud of teenage hormones- to bridge the gap between childhood and adulthood in her head so that her sense of self preservation might serve her better in the future! That’s all you’re wanting.

Accountability from her. Not an assessment on how pathetic she finds your existence.

But then her smile slips into something a little more somber and the wind in your sails- that is the ire in your throat- immediately deflates. “Please?” She trills.

Hear that? Those are your heartstrings being tuned and plucked and strummed by a diabolical mastermind forever trapped in the body of a teenage girl. Under your breath do you curse the softness in your chest as your feet begin pursuing her prints.

____________________________________

There’s something _off_ about the hotel’s entrance, and you’re already aware of what that something is for it lacks any semblance of subtlety and tact.

The walls don’t match.

That is to say there’s quite a large patch that coils around the doors from one side of the moulding to the other, with the jump between textures and slightly off-coloring of the material a harsh sensation. “Repairs from an intruder” Niffty tells you; “a big ass red flag” is what you’d call it.

The youngen grasps one of the dusky doorknobs and you have just enough time to note the twin stained glass panels on either door before she shoulders one of them open- oh fuck, these doors are so much bigger than her!

That’s too goddamn endearing.

Crossing the entrance’s threshold and into the foyer doesn’t leave you with any flesh wounds or broken bones, which is a normal expectation otherwise, yet still that doesn’t embolden even an iota of morale. Just makes the oxygen in your lungs slip through pursed lips.

The interior’s lovely, though.

It has a particular aesthetic to it, a sort of old timey feel inspired by early 1900s Hollywood- gold trimming glistens in the low light around the wall’s seams, a wombo combo of creepy eyes and apple silhouette patterns smatters across the wallpaper and windows and furniture, and varying yet complimentary shades of red- some orange based, others with purple undertones- as far as your eyes can see. Chipped marble statues stand tall along the length of the rich, ruby red rug, and both design choices run down the walkway between your feet and the front desk. Safe to say the rest of the establishment follows this decorative draft.

It’s all very gaudy- not something you would’ve chosen.

Niffty announces her arrival with the verbal enthusiastic accompaniment of a “new friend”, which makes the skin on your face heat up, makes you feel coy, however, then her declaration is only met with the ripples of her voice bouncing from wall to burgundy wall, and the _silence_ (emptiness) becomes baffling.

And a quick glance around the space the two of you occupy yields no other results, it’s just the two of you.

Empty.

Obviously there’s electricity in the building, you can easily point out the amber light sources and random puffs of cool air from the air conditioning, so it’s nearly safe to say that this hotel is functioning. At least somewhat.

Don’t most, if not all, functioning hotels have… tenants? People checking in? Employees, managers, a friggin cock roach?! **_Life_**?

Why keep the lights on if no one else is here? No one else except… you and Niffty. Why would she bring you here? _Knowingly_, of all things, given how she spoke of this place with such familiarity. Unless…

No.

Your eyes find her red, curly locks- she wouldn’t- and the hairs on your arms rise with the pebbling texture on your skin- **she wouldn’t**\- and, _oh_, how the comprehension of age old adages such as “stranger danger” and “curiosity killed the cat” spreads in your chest.

You had no reason to trust her four hours ago, and you have no reason to trust her now.

Seems like her self preservation isn’t the only one that needs fine tuning around here.

Slowly, quietly, you lift your leg and just as discreetly lower it back down behind you, and you mirror this silent shuffle on your right, back and forth, until the tips of your fingers caress a cool, grainy surface. **The doors**.

Feel for the doorknob- “huh, is no one here?” she mumbles- a metallic globe nestles into the meat of your palm- “that’s weird”- your fingers fold around the bulb- “I was hoping that- what’re you doing, Newbie?”- the knob turns, not by you. It’s not you. You’re not twisting the door open.

The doorknob is moving and it’s not because of you.

A sensation of lofty weightlessness replaces the solid slab against your back, a flurry of butterflies erupts in the pit of your stomach, and the visual of Niffty standing amidst dim lighting slips into the recesses of your peripheral as you fall backwards with the retreating door. However, a pair of hands immediately clench around your biceps and from that point of contact you can physically feel their arms expend force to halt your body’s natural inclination to follow the pull of gravity.

“Whoa there!” Someone says from behind- the owner of the hands and your personal savior, you’re assuming. And judging by the higher, decidedly more effeminate pitch of the voice, your pillar of support is a young lady.

Brief peek up through your lashes confirms all suspicions and you’re, like, ninety five percent sure you’ve fallen in love.

A young gal, somewhere in her early twenties, is staring back at you with her groomed brows creasing the impossibly pale skin of her forehead. But it’s the way she’s looking at you, the manner of which you’re able to meet her lovely doe eyes, is what leaves you weak in the knees.

She’s hunched over you. Spine bowed, shoulders raised, neck craned, spun gold tresses spilled around her face kind of hunched because she’s taller than you by a significant amount.

You’re ready to go ahead and propose.

“Umm, hi there,” the (hopefully) future Mrs. Newbie says through a lopsided grin, “are you okay?”

This next moment of stupidity will hound your psyche later on tonight until the only thing that lulls you to sleep is the sheer exhaustion of socially awkward-induced anxiety, however in the meantime there’s no stopping the response that jettisons out of your mouth. “I need to call heaven because they’re missing an angel.”

“… what?”

“I mean my legs must be broken cause I’ve fallen for you.”

____________________________________

Over a glass of water, serviced by an individual whom you can only describe as a winged grump cat- and was, supposedly, here the entire time you were questioning a child’s integrity- is where you apologize to the blonde hotel owner, Charlie; she attempts to wave it off with a flick of her wrist but this doesn’t suffice, not for you at least.

“No no, I’m really sorry- it’s just…” at a momentary loss for words, your index fingernail lightly scrapes into the grainy pattern of the bar. “I’m fairly new here so a lot of things are still pretty jarring.”

“Guess that explains the meat suit, then.”

This astute observation comes from her companion, a long-legged fellow by the name of Angel Dust who’s currently scrutinizing you with his sharp, mix-matched eyes; at a whopping seven foot something this guy looms over everyone in the room with all four arms laced over the tuft of white fur billowing out of the plunging collar of his suit. Bug-based, you think, like an arachnid maybe but with six limbs instead of eight.

**“-arachnids are not insects because-”**

_Nope_, none of that, not gonna have an episode spice up your (less than) stellar first impression.

“Yep, been here for about a month now. I’d like to think I’ve adjusted well enough but, ya know, still get thrown through a loop sometimes. Like this hotel for instance! Never would’ve thought that friggin Hell would have one, no offense.”

On a bar stool to your left pipes up Niffty; “is that why you thought I was gonna attack you, Newbie?”

Naturally you’re utterly unprepared for her rather perceptive question, cause she can determine your, a total stranger’s, apprehension but not an aggressor’s intentions when their teeth are poised around her noggin?

Well, no sense in denying it now, you suppose.

“Sorry about that, Niffty.”

“Oh no worries!” She giggles, “it’d be pre-etty stupid to blindly trust someone like that.”

A few beats pass with the two of you staring at one another, her donning a toothy smile and you puckered lips, and shortly after you disrupt the unofficial contest with a single nod of your head and a “fair enough” tacked on to the finale.

Turning back to Charlie, you tell her that the offensive essence of your statement about her hotel didn’t really make itself known until just now, and apologize for your insensitivity once more. “I guess I just didn’t think anything like this was plausible, but here I am drinking complimentary tap water in a lobby of a hotel in Hell.”

“’Complimentary’, my ass.” The winged cat, Husk as you were told earlier, grumbles under- his? that voice definitely sounds masculine- breath.

“_Okay_, just tap water then. I’m drinking tap water in-”

“I-it’s okay, Newbie!” Charlie interjects, palms raised and fingers slack. “You’re not the first one to doubt the Happy Hotel, though I do appreciate your apology.”

… want some of that non complimentary tap water to wash down that foot, self? Jesus, if you didn’t feel like shit before then boy howdy do you feel it now; way to trash her gig like that.

“But I believe in this project, no matter what anyone else says, and if I can help just one demon find redemption here then everyone else will believe too!”

_FUCK_, you really just shat all over this literal-but-not-really angel’s dreams! God you’re such-

Wait.

Wait wait wait… rewind that, what did she say?

“_Redemption_,” you stress the word, “whaddya mean by that?”

Her mouth blinks open repeatedly not unlike that of a fish before she quickly clears her throat and continues. “Umm.. rehabilitation? To fight against the overpopulation issue?” She must see the lack of recognition on your face. “The entire reason for this hotel?”

Unfortunately for her nothing is distinguishable, not one bit of information or even hearsay within your recollection to mend the rift of miscommunication here, and you explain as such.

“Isn’t that… why you’re… here? To be rehabilitated?” She asks.

You shake your head, “I was just escorting Niffty home so she’d get back safely. This is the first I’ve even heard of your project.”

“Yep yep! Newbie here saved me from some guy that was trying to kidnap me, said he wanted to use me as bait against the bossman, can you believe that?” Niffty scoffs, chased by a large, arcing roll of her one eye. “Completely clueless. But thanks to our new friend here I didn’t have to do anything!”

Angel Dust, apparently with a desire to be a part of the conversation once more, emerges into your line of sight from your right and levels you with a somewhat twisted sneer; lots of fangs, this one, hopefully he’s not a biter.

“So… what? You lookin’ for reward money or somethin’?” He jeers, and it takes some exertion of personal willpower to not clench your hands out of irritation.

Doesn’t mean it’s not showing on your face, however.

“No dude, just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Tch, ya think we’re really fallin for that crock of shit?”

“I don’t care what you think?” Your tone is calm, steady, no need to act like a jackass even in the afterlife- a concept that has obviously eluded this guy’s notice. “That was my reason for helping, ‘s not my problem if you don’t believe me.”

In your peripheral you can see Charlie’s silhouette veer a little to her right/your left; it’s a slight tilt in her neck that seems to tip her center of gravity, drawing her blonde hair over her right shoulder in a curtain of pale gold, however it’s her eyes that capture your absolute, full attention. Round and unblinking, they probe into you with such vigilance that your stomach churns from the intense concentration, except it’s done in a way that brings a sort of glossy haze over her round, pretty face- like she’s looking at you but she’s not _seeing_ you.

Normally you’d be flattered by such an attractive person outright staring at you, openly, but uhh… right now? Yeah, no you’re not, you’re actually feeling pretty anxious right now.

Guess Angel Dust is tuning in on the same wavelength as you because he says her name in the form of a question. And, still with a far away vog clouding over her features, she merely discloses “I need to call Vaggie” then treads towards the building’s entrance.

“… what?” Is all you can get out in this disorientation.

“Vaggie is Charlie’s girlfriend,” Niffy whispers behind a cupped hand.

Which doesn’t actually answer much of anything for you, nevertheless you appreciate her effort and thank her for it.

Then your left pocket comes alive with rhythmic tremors, a clear indication that your phone is receiving some sort of outward correspondence. Ah, a text message from… oh no.

> **Text from: The Boss**
> 
> _“WHAT. THE FUCK. DID YOU DO, NEWBIE?”_

“Oh fuck me.”


	3. Checking In?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're faced with a dilemma as the Happy Hotel opens its doors to you

****

> **Text from: The Boss**
> 
> _“WHAT. THE FUCK. DID YOU DO, NEWBIE?”_

Oh no…

> _“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”_

Fuck… oh fuck, oh god no, please.

> _“WHY ARE SO MANY OF MY CLIENTS COMPLAINING ABOUT YOU?!”_

The drop of your stomach echoes with a fluttering impression, while a surge of heat, abrupt and uncomfortable, licks at the lining of your throat all the way up to your jaw and it bleeds into your ears; the burgundy walls all around you begin to shrink.

__

> _“SOWBELLY SAYS YOU BROKE SOME SHOT!”_

__

> _“*shit you broke some shit”_

__

> _“AND THAT COFFEE SMELLIN HIPSTER FUCK SAYS-”_

With a resounding _clack_, your phone slips from your grip and plummets to the sturdy countertop below, a noise that makes the three people around you flinch (you notice distantly), but your brain- your outermost awareness- doesn’t even bother. Because your entire world is now summing up to the blurbs of rapid fire notifications assaulting the LCD screen. Message after heated text message just filled to the brim with expletives and threats and perpetual capslock until this massive wall of verbal abuse blurs your vision; makes your head throb in sync with the increasing _thump-thump_ of your heart.

The device vibrates against the bar and its screen lights up with another message alert, this one demanding your immediate response before declaring you a “useless piece of shit”, and then not long after comes a voice mail about a minute in length.

You’re not gonna listen to it though, you’re gonna grovel.

A tap from your right middle finger brings the digital keyboard to the glass, and your digits begin dancing across the letters to formulate what you consider to be a heartfelt apology, and you beg forgiveness for your transgressions as a lowly delivery person.

But three paragraphs in your hand forces a sudden stop; typos in need of amending due to the constant use of the backspace key, an entire sentence underlined by red squiggly lines with no break between the nonsense letters, and without realizing it at some point you accidentally pulled up the emoji list and now thirty percent of your sniveling is made up of a bunch of cartoons. It’s an odd sensation, you think as you stare back at the jargon, a backlog of muscle memory for modern technology yet you can’t even design coherent text messages in order to save face.

In order to save your fucking job.

All because your goddamn useless hands won’t stop fucking shaking.

Suppose it’s a futile effort at this point- your ass is one hundred percent absolutely and totally fired now.

Meaning no money for bills, no money for food, for utilities, for clothes… Here comes your eviction notice- goodbye lumpy mattress, and a fine greeting to the filthy streets of Pentagram City. A steep price for your compulsive philanthropy, go figure that that’s how things operate down here. How bass ackwards.

But that’s alright, that’s okay, you’ve been through worse you think- you’ve been- you’ve…

**You’ve suffered through worse before. Homelessness? Ha, nothing compared to the shit you’ve seen _willingly_, a temporary setback, maybe a coworker will let you sleep on their couch. The new girl, what was her name? Stacy? Yeah, she’s pretty eager she’ll let you crash with her- it’ll give her more of an excuse to “befriend” you but that’s alright. Sacrifice comfort for survival, right?**

_“Newbie.”_

**Not the first time, definitely won’t be the last; life in a concrete jungle is such a fickle bitch, especially here in-**

_“Newbie!”_

-here in Pentagram City.

Present time. Post death. Hell. The here and now.

Impossibly small hands are pulling the apples of your cheeks into fleshy bulbs, folding your lips as a pout, and the darkened corners of your vision dim until Niffty’s lone ocular takes precedence in sight; a triad of quick blinks help anchor your focus.

Oh. How wonderful. Yet another episode… how many does that make today? Certainly way more than usual.

You blame the stress.

“Newbie, you okay?” Niffty asks with a tight throat, and a bob of your head delivers your response.

“Just havin’ a… moment. But I’m alright now.”

She glances down to her right in the direction of your phone, still glaring at you from the grainy surface of the bar, and it’s as if you can literally see the gears in her brain start to rotate. You’re fairly certain that she’s about to put two and two together and get four.

“That’s just my own bossman, Mr. Terry. Well, pretty sure he’s my former boss now.”

“Is it cause of today? When you helped me?”

Your knee-jerk reaction is to mindlessly blurt out a response that would confirm her suspicions, but luckily whatever humanity remains in tact notices her pitch- not necessarily concern rather something akin to it paints the undertone- and it clamps your mouth shut with an audible _click_ of your teeth. Because what you were about to do, what you were about to say, be it directly or indirectly that was going to shift at least some of the blame on to her, and that would be completely unfair. The fault doesn’t lie with her. It’s entirely your own. First off the little lady didn’t even ask for your help, she didn’t beckon to you she didn’t plead for interception, you swooping in to “save the day” was your body’s reflexive need to act, to just do _something_ instead of perpetuating the stereotype of morbidly curious bystander. Second, the manner of which how you saved her was incredibly, stupidly sloppy- a path of damage shadowing your trek and all you left behind was a substantial cost of repairs and replacements. Since when was charging through a line of stores ever a good idea?!

No, _you_ made the decision to do something about Niffty’s situation, so _you_ could’ve found a better way to engage it- actually you _should’ve_ found a better way, but your lapse in judgment cost some people tools, resources, products, and even some clientele, thus costing you practically everything, and now Hell is demanding its pound of flesh from someone’s hide.

Don’t let her believe that it may come from her.

“Nah, I accidentally pissed off some clients recently,” you say as you gently take hold of her hands and remove them from your face. “No need to worry about it, kiddo.” Which none of that is a lie in any capacity, sometimes your cleverness does in fact shine through.

Niffty doesn’t seem to think so, though obviously there’s no way for her to know without some form of mind reading, regardless her face falls into a displeased frown complete with round, bulgy cheeks. “I’m not a kid, Newb. Besides you’re younger than me!”

Oh, she’s so friggin precious, you’re gonna miss this youngen. “In terms of dates, sure. But my, uhh, ‘departure time’ so to speak-” you decorate this with air quotes “-gives me some years on ya.”

“Yeah, by a few at most.”

… No? By, like, ten-ish years? Are you missing something?

“Dude I’m pretty sure I died somewhere in my twenties.”

“Okay? And?”

Okay, yeah, you’re definitely missing something. The tingles on the back of your neck prove this.

She’s not a child, is she?

“… Niffty, how old were you when you bought the farm?”

“Twenty two.”

Alright, okay, that’s dope- how long until the next extermination? That’s a thing you’ve heard about, and you’d really love to volunteer yourself to be first in line right about now. The sooner the better, really.

From pit in his stomach comes an eruption of raucous glee, such an intense reaction that it forces Angel Dust- long forgotten until now- to bend until he’s bracing himself with two hands on his knees, the other pair clutching around his heaving abdomen, as he cry-laughs at your expense.

Meanwhile, the feathered feline fellow manning the bar makes a sound in the back of his throat loud enough to reach your ears, and when you give him your attention he deems the conversation relevant enough to glimpse at you from the corner of his amber eyes; there’s a deep green bottle entrapped in his massive paws and with a tip of the neck he takes a hearty swig before he finally mutters whatever is on his mind. You catch a whiff of the unmistakeable odor of bitter, cheap booze.

“Didja really think Niff’s a kid?”

…

Ten minutes.

Ten whole arduous minutes spent enduring rigorous taunting and not-so-light-hearted ribbing from all three demonic compatriots; statements such as “not so bright are ya, smooth talka?” ala Angel and “no wonder you’re so weird” courtesy of Niffty force the tips of your ears to sear with your cheeks quickly following the same trend.

_In your defense_, Niffty’s rather small stature and youthful disposition makes her seem much younger than she actually (apparently) is, and sincerest apologies to the court but she’s the most humanoid individual you’ve encountered downside- other than Charlie, of course- so how were you to know that she wasn’t a _child_ in danger solely based on the information you were given? It’s not like you had the time to stop and ask!

And if this trio of assholes would take a few moments to consider your perspective then maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to jump straight to mockery, so until they do they can just suck your bits.

____________________________________

Some time passes, you’re unclear on how much for you refuse to even so much as think of your phone right now, and though you’ve yet to receive anything further from Mr. Terry- no more text messages, no more voice mails, no more notifications- and though the hotel’s three residents have retired from their cruelty and are seeking entertainment elsewhere- Niffty on a dusty painting, Husk at the bottom of a bottle, and Angel Dust… doing whatever in another room- still you find no peace.

No respite from this fuster cluck of a situatio.

And you don’t know what you’re going to do about it.

But you gotta do something, can’t let this continue to fester, so take a deep breath: one, two, three, four- and let it out: five, six, seven, eight- and repeat. Clear your head. Think about this logically.

The first step should be an apology, of course, but your gut tells you that a simple “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to, won’t happen again” just wouldn’t suffice- not for a group of pissed off demons at least. And your employment with Mr. Terry is a measly two weeks young, nowhere near enough to build up some sort of history of positive work ethic, so starting with him is practically a fool’s errand already.

After all, your enigmatic boss isn’t known for his mercy.

… maybe…

Maybe you’re on to something with that assessment.

Maybe you _shouldn’t_ apologize to him first but rather save him for last. Work up the list of priorities instead of down.

Starting with the demon you pissed off first: Mrs. Sowbelly.

Two pokes at your back.

A delicate, graceful exclamation of _**“FUCK!”**_ comes bellowing out of your mouth as the abrupt shock nearly sends your ass careening to the floor, your hands scrambling upon the bar in order to hook stability.

Mere seconds later and you find Charlie over the slope of your shoulder with her right index finger pointed in your direction; the look on her face suggests that your squawking startled her. In this moment your mouth works much faster than your brain and an apology is already leaping off your tongue… that is until you notice the person standing next to her.

Now, not to be rude about it, but there’s nothing inherently striking about this individual; gray tinted skin, long white hair pouring down the length of her spine, a few inches shorter than the blonde at her side, and a large pink eye staring straight at you with something like irritation. For the most part, she looks human- not humanoid like Charlie and Niffty, but like you.

_Human._

And that’s why she’s stealing your attention.

“Hey Newbie, I want to introduce you to the Happy Hotel’s manager and my partner, Vaggie.” Charlie says with a somewhat forced smile, likely residual from your outburst.

With your eyes trained on the gal in question, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Howdy, pleasure to meet you.”

Vaggie doesn’t say anything back.

Luckily, however, Charlie keeps the conversation rolling.

“The two of us actually wanted to talk to you about something important. Is… is that okay?”

For your anxiety? Anything that even remotely parallels “we need to talk” is a near guarantee to sending your heart to the racetrack, so no it’s not okay in that regard. That being said, given her response earlier, before Mr. Terry battered you with derisive texts, and the fact that she called the manager/her girlfriend over is… well, you’d be lying if you said that you aren’t intrigued. Skeptical, maybe even paranoid, but intrigued. So you give your consent.

“Cool beans! So, umm, I think I’m just going to cut to the chase here,” she clears her throat, “we want you to stay here. At the Happy Hotel. To be rehabilitated.”

…

….

“I’m sorry, fucking _what?_”

The question is out before the rest of your body has time to process Charlie’s words, but even when you fully digest the information you’re still left feeling perplexed. What does she mean “rehabilitation”, what all does that entail, why did she have to call her girlfriend for this?

And, oh, how her patience seems to know no bounds for the smile that curls on her lips is soft, and her brow pulls together in what you can only call generosity. Like she understands your confusion; makes you wonder how often she goes through this schtick.

“Allow me to explain our predicament since you’re still new.”

And she does, in great detail, weaving a copper-scented tapestry with threads dyed the shades of suffering and heinous sin. In less pretentious terms, she regurgitates material you’ve only heard in passing. Hell is bursting at the seams with its substantial over population issue, one that only grows more exacerbated with each newcomer, and with limited real estate and even more limited resources the powers that be reached the conclusion long ago that a percentage just… has to go. Enter the exterminators, a team set out from the tippy topside whose sole purpose is to literally slash some numbers in half once a year.

Charlie doesn’t like this, in fact her exact words are “it kills me inside knowing that my people are being systematically annihilated” and honestly they kinda make you equate this to that of a speech from some representative- an authority figure, someone with power, which makes sense if this is her hotel. It’s pretty, the way she feels about the annual genocide, but you’ve yet to hear her alternative solution if she has any to begin with.

As the saying goes, actions do speak louder than words.

That’s when she genuinely explains the hotel’s purpose: to purge the demons of their vices, purify their souls, make right their wrong doings from when they were alive so that they can walk through the pearly gates as a reborn person, faultless and whole. Redemption. Rehabilitation. Because a hotel is only a temporary pitstop between two destinations.

The idea… makes _enough_ sense, you guess.

“I mean, that’s neat, super admirable, and the whole idea of reforming demons instead of just- ya know- offing them sounds way better in comparison. But uhh- what does this have to do with me?”

“Well,” Charlie looks over at Vaggie before advancing her explanation, “you’re new. You haven’t regained your memories yet, your body hasn’t adapted yet, you still have your humanity- I mean you helped Niffty out of a tight spot without any expectation of a reward!”

“Nah, I just did what felt like the right thing at the time.”

“Exactly! We need someone like that here!”

Ah.

Now the picture has clarity.

What Charlie said earlier, _“… if I can help just one demon find redemption here then everyone else will believe too!”_ that was merely another way of saying “we haven’t succeeded yet.” And judging by the way the hotel’s current residents, this motley crew of friends(?), they’ve been trying with people who have been here a lot longer than you have- you, a newbie that hasn’t gone through “the Change” yet, hasn’t full acclimated or been assimilated into the disgusting system of eternal suffering. Like they have. If redemption can be had here it’s more likely to be found with a newcomer like you, and if _you_ can be saved then it’ll prove possible for anyone else.

At least that’s what you’ve surmised from the situation.

It doesn’t sit right with you though.

You did _something_ topside to warrant your arrival here, or maybe you did a lot of things, or maybe you didn’t do enough, you don’t know and that’s the point. _You don’t remember_. There could be a mountain of skeletons shoved into your closet that you’re completely unaware of and until further notice that’s where they’re going to remain _if they even exist._

You. Don’t. Know.

There are way too many unknown variables regarding your past- no, you’re very identity, and though you’ve been reassured on numerous occasions that that’s actually the standard here for newcomers… that doesn’t mean you deserve a second chance. Because who you were may not deserve it.

So don’t waste the room on a potential lost cause, is what you tell them.

“All the more reason to try it now before your memories can influence you.” Vaggie says in a firm voice, the very first you’ve heard her speak. 

And admittedly the logic is sound, you’re not trying to dispute that, it’s just… 

Not you- a clattering racket against the bar top- anyone else may deserve this opportunity- disrupts the conversation- but not you- and it takes all of two seconds to determine the source. It’s your phone, probably Mr. Terry announcing you officially dead to his business.

“Do you have a place to stay?” Still Vaggie.

As of right now, no, you really don’t.

“Residents can board here for free, you just have to stay clean- no sinning, at least as best you can.”

That’s not too bad, you think. Maybe you should-

_No!_ No, one “good deed” doesn’t merit a shot at atonement. It’s not going to negate whatever it is you did to topside to leave you downside.

…but you’re more than likely out of a job now, one that barely paid enough to cover expenses to begin with, and losing your apartment is trailing not that far behind.

“What do you say, Newbie?”

“I-” the sudden dryness in your throat drags forth a minor coughing fit. “I don’t know if I deserve it.”

“Only one way to find out.”

**Sacrifice comfort for survival, right?**

You take a deep breath. “O-okay. Where’s the check-in sheet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/u: you're in, you're a resident of the hasbin hotel now. let's see how long that lasts. still no al yet, we're buildin up to his entrance and we're getting ever c l o s e r- his flamboyant, extra ass calls for nothing less. also sorry for the delay y'all, hopefully the next one won't take quite as long! ya know the drill by now- kudos, comment, bookmark, all that great stuff cause engagement is everything to content creators. but most importantly, thank you guys so goddamn much for taking the time to read this <3 catch y'all on the flipside!


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